


sky colored saffron

by zinc_carpenter



Category: Banlieue 13 (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinc_carpenter/pseuds/zinc_carpenter
Summary: She calls Leïto from the cluttered breakroom to ask what he wants for dinner.
Relationships: Leïto & Lola (Banlieue 13)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	sky colored saffron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tam_Cranver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/gifts).



It’s summer, and the heat hangs, wet and oppressive, across the banlieue. Even the breeze feels like an unwelcome, moist breath on the nape of Lola’s neck. The wobbly fans in the supermarket turn far too slow to be cooling, and Lola keeps an eye on the clock her entire shift. 

She calls Leïto from the cluttered breakroom to ask what he wants for dinner. They argue briefly, settle on sweet onion omelettes, and lapse into companionable silence for a bit. There’s traffic noises in the background of the call, faint yelling and singing, beneath the even, staticky noise of Leïto’s breath. She can picture her brother staring longingly at the rooftops. 

“Don’t fall off the window ledge,” she says, and hangs up

The sky’s the color of saffron when she gets back to their new apartment building, late as it is; still not quite sunset, not in the sweltering French summer. She’s waved in by the guards at the door — Etienne and Phil, tonight, both carrying pump action rifles — and bumps her bicycle up the steps and into the elevator, plastic shopping bag looped tightly around one wrist and apartment key in her other hand. Usually she’d take the stairs, but heat rises in the stairwells, and today her legs ache. 

The elevator door rattles open at her floor and she wheels her bike out. Summer heat brings out the mustiness in the building, and the hall smells of cinnamon air freshener, recently sprayed but not quite enough to hide a lingering stink of cat piss. Their new apartment is at the end of the hall. Damien had found it for them, had helped them move in and unpack. It’s lovely and big, at least compared to their last place, with room for Leïto’s workout equipment, and an actual kitchen instead of a tiny kitchen unit tucked in beside the front door. 

The key sticks in the lock and she has to fumble with it, juggling her shopping bag and bike handles, to get it open, but eventually the battered door swings open. From the doorway, she sees her brother — Leïto’s sprawled across the couch, a much thumbed-over issue of the _Internationale Situationniste_ pressed open against his thigh. His sprained ankle is propped up on the bolster pillow from his bed. The window, of course, is open; their tiny apartment would be stifling in the summer heat with it closed, even in the evening, and Leïto likes how the breeze carries in the sounds of the banlieue. His head jerks up as the door opens and he twists to see whose coming in as he makes an abrupt movement that she knows is him slipping a hand between the couch cushions to get a hand on the handgun they keep tucked there. 

When he sees it’s her, he relaxes and gets an elbow over the arm of the couch to prop himself up and watch as she toes out of her shoes, leaving them beside the door alongside his well-worn sneakers. “Hey, little sister. How was work?” 

“It was fine,” she says, as she crams her bike into the tiny hall closet. He lets her plant a quick kiss on his head; Lola wrinkles her nose as she pulls back and heads into the kitchen area to deposit the groceries. “You taste like sweat and hair product. Take a shower, it’s gross.”

“And how come you smell like cigarettes again?” Leïto retorts. 

“My manager spent his lunch break breathing smoke down my neck and telling me how I can bring my bagging time down,” Lola says. “Old pervert.” She waits until she hears him laugh before she starts unpacking the groceries. There’s not much to put away. Generator blackouts in the banlieue are frequent during the dog days of summer, and Lola’s not willing to risk an excess of food spoiling before someone can get the generator back up and running. A few things go on the kitchen shelves — dry goods, and things in cans that can keep in the heat; the half-gallon of milk and the cheese go in the fridge, and the frozen mixed vegetables in the freezer compartment. She puts everything away while Leïto reads her quotes from his book that go over her head. 

“You’ve been getting some reading done, huh,” she remarks, emerging from their kitchen unit.

“Not like I can do much else,” Leïto says, gesturing with disgust at his swollen ankle.

“You’re the idiot who decided to go running right after it had rained,” Lola says, and slaps his good leg. “Stick to the ground next time, asshole.” Leïto makes a face at her and pointedly goes back to his book.

For all his love of quiet and solitude, her brother absolutely loathes being cooped up. His sprained ankle — the result of an early morning adventure across rain-drenched roofs and a bad fall — hasn’t been fun for either of them. Lola’s spent the past two weeks feeding him cheap painkillers from the free clinic, and also picking up extra hours at the supermarket so she doesn’t have to be cooped up in the apartment with him.

“Did Damien call?” she asks, moving towards their landline phone. She knows what the answer will be, but checks the ancient answering machine anyways, more out of habit than hope. “He must have been busy,” she offers.

Leïto hums, dissatisfied, but doesn’t say anything. His taciturnity is something Lola’s had a lifetime learning to live with — and to counter-balance, to a certain extent — but when it comes to Damien, to empty answering machines and seemingly emptier promises, she finds herself appreciating it a pathetic amount. 

Dinner is easy to prepare, especially after Leïto hobbles into the kitchen to lend a hand. They work side by side and trade snippets about their day while dicing onions and toasting bread. Leïto tells her about the book he’s reading — a three-times photocopied, comb bound anthology of Situationist writings — and she tells him about the customers at the supermarket, the ones she’s slipped cans of food and packages of dry baby formula. Leïto teases her about wanting a jail record to match him, and she shoves him affectionately. It doesn’t matter, so long as people are fed. They both know this. 

Leïto wants to watch a movie while they eat, so after the food is prepared, they set the bowls on the table and, groaning, Leïto lowers himself to the cushions and adjusts a pillow under his foot. Most of their things are still boxed from the move, so Lola borrows his knife and cuts into a few of the boxes until she finds an old favorite: Fantômas. Leïto amuses himself by chucking chess pieces in her direction while she struggles with the ancient DVD player and thinks about shooting him with the handgun tucked under the couch cushions. Finally it whirs to life, and she rocks back onto her heels and then to her feet, wincing as her calves twinge from a day of standing on a bare concrete floor in front of a register. Leïto’s head is tilted against the couch back, eyes half closed, watching her from beneath his eyelashes. 

“What?” she huffs, brushing her knees off — dirt floats in on the breeze with the windows open — and drops onto the sofa next to him. 

He yelps and shoves her. “My foot!”

“Sorry,” Lola says, then drops an apologetic kiss onto his shoulder for good measure. 

“It’s alright,” he grumbles, but elbows her with a gentleness belying his annoyed tone. “Move over.”

“You move,” she retorts. “Couch hog.”

Leïto points to his bandaged ankle. “One of us is injured.”

“One of us has been on her feet all day doing an honest day’s work,” she points out. He scowls at her, so she sticks her tongue out at him. Like it always does, it makes him laugh, and he shifts his arm, resting it along the back of the couch behind her head. Satisfied, Lola settles back against the couch cushions, tips her head against his shoulder, and as the animated credits start to roll, she feels herself start to doze.


End file.
